


i'll fix you (with my love)

by rtozier (strawbeddie)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eddie the scammer, First Meetings, M/M, Richie Tozier has tattoos, actually u know what they're all best friends and love each other a lot, and thats that, richie and Bev are bffs, richie and Stan are bffs, that's only slightly important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 10:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20851853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawbeddie/pseuds/rtozier
Summary: Richie tries to mind his own business, he really does, but his eyes keep drifting to the cutie two tables down from them, sitting alone at a table for two.





	i'll fix you (with my love)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the prompt: “hey i heard the waitstaff talking about how your date stood you up so i’m pretending to be your date to save you from embarrassment.” “that’s very sweet of you, but i’m only pretending to be stood up so the staff will feel bad for me and give me a free dessert.” that i mostly stuck to.  
title from the song the cure by lady gaga because it slaps.

Richie tries to mind his own business, he really does, but his eyes keep drifting to the cutie two tables down from them, sitting alone at a table for two.

He honestly isn’t trying to be nosy, but he can’t help but overhear a couple of the waitstaff whispering about how the guy’s been sitting there, checking his phone every couple of minutes for the last half hour. Richie’s heart maybe breaks a little bit.

“S-stop staring, Richie, it’s rude.” Bill chides, chancing a sympathetic glance in the guy’s direction before quickly looking away. “Poor guy g-got stood up.”

Richie doesn’t miss the way Stan squeezes Bill’s hand under the table.

In that moment, Richie Tozier is sure of exactly three things: one, he loves his best friends with everything he has in him; two, this third wheel bullshit is getting old; and three, he has to go talk to the guy, at least _try_ and get him to cheer up.

“Look, as much as I love being the Kevin Jonas of this group, it’s time for me to,”—Richie takes off his glasses— “put on my cape and become Clark Kent. Richie to the rescue.”

Bill rolls his eyes. “Clark Kent d-doesn’t wear a c-c-cape, Richie.”

“And he _wears_ glasses, so why did you take yours off, dumbass?”

“Semantics, Stanley.” Richie dismisses. He places a kiss to each of his friends’ foreheads, before taking out his wallet and putting down enough cash to cover his meal and his portion of the tip, then makes his way over to the cutie’s table.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks, gesturing to the empty chair across from the guy. “Well, obviously not.” He answers his own question. “Mind if I sit?” Richie sits down before the guy has a chance to respond.

“Oh, absolutely. Be my guest.” The guy deadpans.

_Cute, _Richie thinks.

_Like, really, really cute._

He’s got curly brown hair that frames his face like a cherub, and the most adorable brown eyes Richie’s ever seen in his life.

“Now,” Richie starts, leaning in, chin in his hands, “what’s a cutie like you doing alone in a place like this?” 

The guy leans in, too, whispering conspiratorially, “Fuck off, man, you’re ruining everything.”

Richie leans back at that, putting his hands up defensively. “Hey, dude, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He’s going to stand up when the guy stops him, gesturing for him to lean closer again.

“No, you misunderstood.” He glances around to make sure no one’s listening to them, “It’s all an act.” At Richie’s confused glance, he clarifies. “If I reserve a table for two, then show up alone and sit here looking all sad and heart broken, usually the staff will feel bad for me, and I end up getting my meal comped.” He winks at Richie. “Works every time. It must be the eyes.”

Richie leans back in his seat again, amazed. He laughs once, loud and bright. “Yeah. It must be the eyes, you little...scammer.”

The little scammer grins back at him, extending a hand. “I prefer Eddie. Good to meet you...?”

“Richie.” He shakes Eddie’s hand, then grabs a napkin, pretending to write something down with his finger. 

“Dear diary,” Richie vocalizes. “I think I met my soulmate today. His name is Eddie. We met at a restaurant downtown and he told me that he’s a part time criminal. I just might be in love.”

Eddie laughs, shushing him. “Are you always this fucking annoying?”

“Only one way to find out.” Richie says, grabbing the same napkin he’d been fake writing on, and a pen from the table. He scribbles his number across it and the word “soulmate” underneath. He thinks better of it, and in parentheses writes “Richie” next to that, before handing Eddie the napkin.

“An absolute honor to meet you, Eddie the Scammer.” He salutes before standing up from the table with one last wink behind him.

Richie’s on his way back to his own table when one of the waitresses stops him.

“Excuse me,” she calls, and he turns around eyebrows raised. She’s pretty, he thinks. Can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen, and her eyes are shiny, like she might start crying. “We just think it was so sweet what you did for that guy.” She nods her head in Eddie’s direction without looking over there. “Sitting with him when his date didn’t show up. That was the first time we saw him smile since he walked in.” She smiles brightly, and Richie grins back.

“Trust me,” he squints to read her name tag, “Alyssa. The pleasure was all mine.”

He goes back to sit with Bill and Stan who are just about ready to leave now, stacking their plates, glasses, and silverware into organized piles.

“How the hell do you do that?” Stan asks gesturing towards Eddie’s table.

When Richie turns to look over there, though, Eddie looks away, blushing.

“It took Bill ten years to ask me out, Richie. Ten. Years. Did you know he’s had a crush on me since we were twelve? Twelve!”

“Yes, I know. I was there.” Richie reminds him.

“H-hey!” Bill calls, affronted. “It’s not like you were making any m-m-moves, either, S-stanley.”

“That’s because you’re out of my league, baby, you know that.” Stan says like they haven’t been together, happily, for the last four years. He places a quick kiss to Bill’s temple, then smiles at the way his boyfriend blushes.

“That’s enough PDA for tonight, Stan, there are children here.” Richie says. He throws an arm over each friends’ shoulder, and the three of them head out. Not before he looks back at Eddie one last time and mouths ‘call me’.

+

It’s a couple of days later when Richie gets a text from a Maybe: Eddie.

E:_ Hey, this is Eddie. We met at the restaurant the other night. You busy?_

Richie texts back almost immediately.

R: _i remember :)))_ _nah not busy just chillin, whats up_

When his phone starts buzzing a couple of seconds later with an incoming call from Eddie, Richie lets it go to voicemail.

E:_ ?????_

R:_ srry didn't want to seem desperate_

E: _What? Why would I think you're desperate because you answered your phone?_

R: _touche _

He calls Eddie back.

“You’re so fucking weird.” Eddie says in lieu of a hello, which Richie supposes is fair.

“Hey, Eds.” Richie says back, smiling into his phone like he’s a teenager in a rom com, which is _disgusting,_ but he can’t help it.

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie says plainly, but it sounds like he’s smiling, too. “Hey, I wanted to ask you something.”

“I’m all ears, Eddie Spaghetti.”

“Jesus, that’s even worse.” Eddie mutters, mostly to himself. “That night at the restaurant, why did you sit with me?” He sounds almost nervous which Richie finds odd.

“Why not? Have you seen yourself?” Richie’s only half kidding when he asks it.

“No, Richie, seriously. What made you decide to sit down and talk to me?”

Richie sighs, considering just lying about the whole thing, but he wants Eddie to know the truth. “Remember those two guys I was with? The tall one and the curly one?” He waits until he hears Eddies hum of assent before continuing. “Those are two of my best friends; Bill and Stan. They’ve been my best friends since we were, like, ten” He trails off for a minute, reminiscing.

“Anyway, I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't always been this good looking,” Richie absolutely does not get offended at Eddie’s scoff on the other end of the line. “And kids used to bully me. A lot. So, one day I was sitting by myself at lunch, which wasn’t unusual, and this kid comes up to me, just as sweet as could be, and he says ‘_Hey, is it okay if I sit with you?_’ little stutter and all. Asking _me_, if it was okay to sit with me. So I said yes. The next day, he brings another kid; curly hair, soft spoken, kind. By the end of the school year, we’ve got a whole little group of misfits, the Losers Club, we called ourselves. We’re all still friends to this day, over fifteen years later.

“So when I saw you, just sitting there by yourself, that little kid in me said ‘_Go to him. Maybe he could use a friend.’_”

There’s a long, long pause before Eddie finally speaks up. “Well, now I feel like an asshole.”

“Hey, none of that. You might be a little scammer but look what it got you! Me! Did it work, by the way? Your plan?”

“Of course it did,” Eddie says smugly. “The eyes, remember?”

“Yeah,” Richie sighs, dreamily. “I remember.”

They’re both quiet for a while, before Eddie speaks up.

“Oh, hey. There’s something else I wanted to ask you.” His voice is nervous again and Richie’s already decided that he hates it.

“Go ahead, Spaghetti Man, ask away.” He says easily.

“Please don’t make me regret this, _Jesus_, but did you want to go out sometime? Grab dinner, maybe?”

_Yes_, Richie thinks emphatically, but what comes out of his mouth is, “Why? Scamming people alone not working out for you anymore?” He says it as a joke, so he’s surprised at the seriousness of Eddie’s tone when he responds.

“No,” a sigh, a pause. “It’s not.”

It sobers Richie, and his voice is soft when he says, “I’d love to, Eds.”

+

As soon as the date’s set, Richie sends a text to his _Baddest Bitches in Maine_ group chat.

**trashmouth:** guess what gays?

**stanley the manly:** You woke up before 4pm today?  
  
**billiam:** you decided to do your own laundry and stop leaving loads at my house? georgie says hi btw  
  
**big red:** ur finally going to let me cut your hair? thank fuck, that shit is a mess.  
  
**micycle:** u ready to get your ass kicked in street fighter again? your place or mine dick  
  
**benny’s:** what’s up rich?  
  
**trashmouth:** thank you ben <3, hi georgie, and fuck the rest of yall.

i have a date :)))  
  
**billiam:** about time! who’s the lucky person?

**trashmouth:** rmr the cutie from the chinese place?

**billiam:** :D  
  
**stanley the manly:** Nooo way  
  
**big red:** richard, explain!!!

So he does.

+

Richie’s trying on his fourth shirt of the evening when it hits him that maybe he’s the problem.

He calls Bill in a panic.

“Bill, am I ugly?” He asks before he even says hello, then shakes himself, remembering his manners. “Hi, Bill. Am I ugly?” He tries again.

He hears a snort come from the other line before Bill says, “Y-you’re on speaker, R-r-richie. And no, you’re nuh-not ugly. What’s this about?”

Richie flops back on his bed and sighs heavily. He cradles his phone between his shoulder and ear, his voice is quiet when he says, “My date tonight. I guess I’m nervous.”

Bill makes a sympathetic noise. “Richie, h-he asked you out, right? Why are you s-s-so...so worried?”

“I don’t know!” Richie groans in frustration. “It’s just been a long time since, _you know_, and I guess I just want everything to go okay.”

There’s rustling on the other end of the line, followed by swearing, and grunting, and then Stan’s triumphant “Aha!”

“Richie.” Stan says, seriously, he can still hear Bill struggling to take his phone back. “If you tell another soul I said this, I swear I’ll kill you; but if I weren't in a happy relationship with the man of my dreams, and I didn’t know anything about you, and had never heard you speak before, then I could easily say I'd find you attractive.”

Richie feels his throat get tight and his eyes start stinging at the backhanded but well-meaning compliment. He clears his throat, “Stanny...” is all he can say.

“This stays between us, Richie. Now shut up and get ready. You’ve got someone waiting for you.”

“Aye aye, cap—” Richie starts to say, but Stan hangs up on him before he can finish.

Stan’s words ring through his ears as he picks up another shirt to try on; a dark blue button up that Bev had previously said looked good on his skin tone. The sleeves are long enough that only a tiny bit of his full sleeve of tattoos is peeking out.

_You’ve got someone waiting for you._

_Damn right, I do _Richie thinks to himself, checking himself out in his full length mirror a final time. He smiles weakly at his reflection, runs a hand through his messy hair, makes sure he has his keys, phone, and wallet, and then he’s out the door.

Best not to keep Eddie waiting too long, after all.

+

Richie makes it to the restaurant—a nice steakhouse that Eds had recommended this time—at seven o’clock on the hour. When the hostess brings him to their table, Eddie’s already sitting down, looking just as cute as the first time Richie saw him.

“Eds,” He greets warmly, and Eddie’s head snaps up from where he’d been playing on his phone. He smiles brightly at Richie, standing up so he can wrap his arms around Richie’s middle.

“Hey, Richie.” Eddie says into the hug. “Good to see you again.”

“You too, cutie.” Richie says genuinely, pulling back so he can take his seat.

Richie’s a talker by nature, always has been, so he’s more than capable of carrying an entire conversation for an evening if need be, but with Eddie, he doesn’t have to.

Conversation comes naturally with them, it seems, and they find themselves talking well after dinner and dessert are finished.

Eddie, he learns, is a twenty six year old pharmaceutical representative, who mainly works downtown but lives out in the suburbs. He’s been living on his own since his mother kicked him out at sixteen. (He doesn’t tell Richie why, but it’s not hard to guess.) He’s a dog person (great), prefers sunrises to sunsets (both beautiful in Richie’s opinion), and he hates horror movies (nobody’s perfect, and Richie’s nothing if not understanding)

They talk and they talk until the waitress comes by and asks if they’re ready for the bill, which Richie’s come to understand means “hurry the fuck up, we’re ready to close.”

Richie reaches for his wallet, but Eddie puts up a hand, stopping him.

“I asked you out tonight, let me.” Eddie insists, taking his credit card out of his wallet and handing it to the waitress to swipe before Richie can protest any further. “You can pay for the food next time.”

“Next time?” Richie asks, eyeing Eddie hopefully.

“Well, I was hoping. If you wanted...” He trails off, looking up at Richie from underneath long lashes.

“Next time, then. At least let me take care of the tip, for now.” Richie maintains, and Eddie nods. Richie grabs a couple of $20s from his wallet, handing to the waitress with a soft, “Thank you so much.” She beams at him, and wishes them both a good night, and they head out.

“So, Eds,” Richie starts as they make their way outside. The nighttime breeze feels good on his skin. “I mean no disrespect, but you’re clearly not a struggling twenty-something, strapped for cash.” He looks Eddie up and down approvingly, smiling at the way it makes him blush.

“No, I’m not.” Eddie agrees, without an ounce of arrogance, just truthfully.

“So, I gotta ask, man. This whole free pity meal thing? How did that start?”

“That’s a story for another night.” Eddie’s voice gets kind of sad and he gets a far away look in his eyes before shaking his head quickly, like he’s trying to clear a thought from it.

“But these days, there’s nothing to it, really. The money that I don’t pay for the food, I tip to the waiters on the low, so really, its a win-win.” He winks at Richie playfully.

“A modern day Robin Hood?” Richie says in his best Southern Belle accent and Eddie laughs. “A man after my own heart, I could swoon.”

Please, don’t.” Eddie says, still laughing, “Because then I’d have to leave you here.”

“Oh, Eds, you wouldn’t!” He cries, accent in full force. “I just know it.” Eddie rolls his eyes, and nudges Richie.

They’re leaned up against the hood of Richie’s car, now, not talking for a few moments, just sharing each other’s company.

Eddie’s the first to speak. “When can I see you again?” He asks softly. He’s looking up at Richie with wide, earnest eyes.

_Tonight_, Richie wants to say. Wants to take Eddie back to his condo and rock his world—or get his world rocked, Richie’s not picky—but he doesn’t want to ruin this feeling. It’s new, and genuine, and pure, and Richie can’t get enough of it. He _wants_.

He presses his forehead against Eddie’s, just breathing him in. It should be weird, but it’s not, and Eddie’s looking up at him like he wants Richie to kiss him and so he does, leans in, and Eddie meets him halfway.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Richie says, when he pulls away. Doesn’t miss the disappointment that flashes across Eddie’s features before he breaks into a timid smile.

“Tomorrow.” Eddie agrees with a nod.

+

**micycle:** so how’d the date go?

**big red:** yesss details please!

Richie sends back [this meme,](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DpPTz6YU0AAgcxd?format=jpg&name=900x900) sighing wistfully.

Stan promptly removes him from the group chat.

+

Contrary to popular belief, Richie Tozier is a functioning adult with a somewhat full time job, and responsibilities. Sure, he’s easy going, likes to crack jokes, and has a hard time taking himself too seriously, but none of that equates to him being childish or careless, the way that so many people misjudge him to be, especially when they find out his profession.

He loves his job, loves his clients, and wants to do right by them. Sometimes that means putting his life on the back burner for the sake of art.

Maybe that’s why he forgets to call Eddie. He’s so used to the only relationships in his life being between him and the losers, and him and his clients, that juggling this new, precious thing that’s building between them seems unobtainable.

It’s three days after their date, and Richie’s in his studio, just finishing up a custom design he’s drawing for one of his clients—a back piece that’ll have to be split into multiple sessions—when his phone buzzes for what feels like the 20th time that day.

The message, which is from Eddie, just reads: _Can you at least tell me what I did wrong?_

_what do u mean eds? _He texts back, distractedly, leaning back in his chair to stretch out his tense muscles. He wiggles his fingers experimentally, wincing at the dull ache he feels. Yeah, a break is definitely well overdo.

He’s waiting for a response when it hits him. God, Richie was an _idiot_. He’s quick to hit the little phone icon by Eddie’s name, bouncing his knee anxiously while it rings.

“Hello?” Eddie answers, warily. He sounds tired.

“Eds!” Richie sighs, relieved. “Hey, man, sorry I didn’t call right away, butt with work and all I just—”

“It’s fine.” Eddie interrupts, but his voice makes it clear that this is anything _but_ fine. It isn’t cold—per se—just empty. Like he has to hide his feelings completely to keep them from being hurt. Richie never wants to hear him sound like that again.

“No, Eds, really. I had a great time!” Richie promises, “I’ve just been busy, is all. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, Richie.” Eddie lies, softer this time. Richie doesn’t believe him for a second.

“Okay, well, what are you doing right now?”

“Um. Nothing?” Eddie asks, then clears his throat. “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

“Okay. Got it, Eds.” Richie laughs, “Why don’t you stop by the studio, then? I’m almost done with this piece, and we can just order food and hang out here if you want.”

Eddie perks up immediately. “Really?” He asks.

“Of course, spaghetti man. I really want to see you again.” Richie adds, then, “I’ll text you the address?”

“Sure.” Eddie sounds like he’s smiling now. And while Richie may love his job, this is the most excited he’s felt all day.

+

If someone had told Richie ten years ago that at 21, he’d surprise absolutely no one but himself by dropping out of his school’s physical therapy program to work as an apprentice in a tattoo shop, he would have laughed in their face. If that same person had told him that at 27, he’d be one of the most highly requested tattoo artists in the state, own his own studio downtown, be able to make his own hours and still be able to live more than comfortably, all while doing something that he _loves_, he would’ve suggested a career in stand-up comedy.

Yet here he is.

He’s sitting in the back of his private studio, with the man he met last week but feels like he’s known all his life, halfway through his third slice of pizza while Eddie is still dabbing the grease off of his first.

_And he’s happy_, he thinks. Richie is _happy_.

“You’re staring.” Eddie says, a confused little smile tugging at his lips, and Richie comes back to himself.

“You’re nice to look at.” Richie counters with a smirk, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

They’re spread out on the sofa he keeps in the studio—an area hidden away from the eyes of clients, reserved for friends and family only. (But Richie guesses those are one and the same.) Eddie picks the show they watch, some early 2000s sitcom with a laugh track and bad acting, but Richie would rather watch Eddie anyway; the way he throws his head back when he laughs, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way he mouths along to almost every line, yet still acts surprised when the drama unfolds.

“Seriously, dude.” Eddie interrupts Richie’s gazing. “Keep that shit up, you’re gonna give me a big head.”

“Yeah?” Richie leers, because he’s an asshole, but Eddie just gives it right back to him.

“Yeah.” He agrees suggestively. “_Can_ you, Rich?”

“Can I what?”

“Can you keep it up?”

“Can I...? God, you’re fucking shameless, you know that?” He’s all in Eddie’s space now, pizza and shitty TV forgotten.

“I know I want you to fuck me shameless.” Eddie says, and Richie groans.

Thats fucking it. He kisses Eddie hard and fast, open mouthed and full of tongue. They kiss until they both have to pull away, panting for breath.

“Do you... I don’t have anything.” Richie pants against Eddie’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes, “in my fanny pack.” He reaches for the contraption on his waist and Richie nearly ruins the moment when doubles over with laughter.

“What’s so fucking funny, asshole?” Eddie asks, testily, retrieving a condom and a bottle of lube.

“Nothing, Eds, it’s just so cute. And practical. Do you always carry those with you?” Richie snickers, and Eddie shuts him up with another bruising kiss.

“Can never be too safe.” Eddie shrugs when he pulls away. He makes a show of tossing the fanny pack to the side before starting to get rid of his clothes, too. He raises a challenging eyebrow at Richie. “You gonna fuck me over the back of this couch, or not?”

Now, Richie may be an idiot, but he’s not stupid, and who is he to say no to an offer like that?

+

“So,” Eddie breathes when they’re done. He’s half laying across Richie’s body—the couch isn’t _that_ big—with his head pillowed on Richie’s chest, absently tracing his fingers over the tattooed skin. “Show me around the studio?”

Richie’s relaxed, and sleepy, and content to just lay there for the time being. “Mmm, later, Eds. Let’s just nap for a bit, okay?.” He suggests, and feels Eddie nod against his chest, errant curls ticking Richie’s chin.

Richie places a soft kiss to the top of Eddie’s head, before he lets his eyes slip shut.

+

When Richie wakes up, he hears Eddie in the front of the studio, rummaging around. He throws on his glasses, t shirt, and boxers before making his way up there.

Eddie’s sitting in the waiting area, flipping through one of Richie’s flash books, full of hand painted designs. He smiles brightly when he sees Richie approach.

“You painted all these?” He asks, amazed, as he gestures to the book in his hand.

“Sure did.” Richie says, proudly. He takes the seat next to Eddie’s as he continues to flip through the book, occasionally _oohing_ and _aahing, _running delicate fingers along the pages.

“These are incredible, Rich...” Richie smiles at the sincerity in his voice, “How long does it take you?” Eddie asks.

Richie blows out a breath. “Hours, Eds.” He stops Eddie on the current page, full of traditional sacred heart designs. “Like these.” He gestures to the hearts, which are about the size of his palm. “Drawing and painting each one of these took about two hours per design.”

“Holy shit,” Eddie breathes. They don’t say much else for a couple of minutes, sitting in companionable silence as Eddie gravitates from one book to the next, to the designs that Richie has hung up on his wall.

“Well, Eds? How about you?” Richie calls, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?” Eddie hums distractedly from where he’s staring at some of Richie’s more realistic designs.

“You ever think about getting ink blasted?” He asks, and Eddie makes a disgusted face.

“Why are you like this? And yeah, I’ve thought about it. Probably won’t ever happen though. I really, really don’t like needles.” He says. When Richie raises a questioning brow, Eddie just shrugs and says, “childhood thing.” He doesn’t make an effort to explain himself any further, but Richie gets it, anyway, so he just nods.

+

“I should get going.” Eddie says some time later. They’ve been hanging out for hours and the sun’s just starting to set, painting the sky a beautiful combination of pink and orange. Richie’s learned to appreciate the moments of beauty that life just hands them sometimes.

“Yeah, you’d better.” Richie agrees, but he’s sad about it. He enjoys their time together so much.

“I’ll see you later?” Eddie asks, voice as soft as he wraps his arms around Richie’s waist. 

“I’ll see you then.” Richie nods, then, “Text me when you make it home.”

After Eddie leaves, Richie busies himself with tidying up the studio, before he throws himself back into his artwork. He only stops when, 45 minutes later, his phone buzzes with a text message that just reads “_home._”

+

“Hey, when’s your birthday?” Eddie asks out of the blue one night when they’re driving home from the movies. Richie had convinced Eddie to see one of the new scary movies that was showing, and Eddie had spent half show gripping Richie’s hand so tight it hurt, and half the car ride back ignoring him.

“You’re about four months too late if you wanted to throw me a surprise party, Eds.” Richie jokes. “Or eight months too early if you’re a glass half full type of guy.”

Eddie just stares at him blankly from the passenger seat.

“Why do you ask?” Richie hedges.

“I have a plan.” Eddie states. “You feel like scheming and scamming tonight?”

“With you, baby?” Richie reaches over to grab his boyfriend’s hand, intertwining their fingers in Eddie’s lap. “Always.”

+

Richie does a great job at pretending to be shocked when the restaurant staff come out with a cake, reluctantly but enthusiastically singing “Happy Birthday” to him. He’s sure to duck his head down shyly, and smile timidly at the poor, unfortunate college-aged employees.

He even peppers in a bashful, “You guys, I’m sorry, I told him not to do this.” 

All the while, Eddie is grinning at him across the table, completely overjoyed.

Not for the first time, Richie’s floored by how he ended up with such a beautiful soul. Scamming aside, Eddie was everything Richie never let himself dream of having.

He ducks his head for real when the song ends, and he hears the dutiful cheers and whistles of the other patrons in the restaurant.

_Happy Birthday indeed_, Richie thinks, digging into the ice cream cake they brought out for him, because damn it, it’s his birthday somewhere.

+

They go on exactly four more dates before Richie introduces Eddie to 4/5 of the Losers. 

They love him, which is to be expected.

“Eddie,” Bill greets kindly, slapping away Eddie’s outstretched hand and going in for a hug, “good to s-s-see you again, we’ve h-heard so much about yuh-you.” 

“Literally so much. You know how much Richie talks.” Stan pipes up from Bill’s left. He gives Eddie a polite wave.

“So good to finally meet you guys.” Eddie says, sincerely. “I’ve heard a lot about you all, too.”

Ben and Mike greet him warmly, each pulling Eddie into a hug of their own; and not those one-armed bro hugs, either.

Mike hugs Eddie for just a second or two longer than what would generally be considered acceptable, whispering something to him that makes Eddie duck his head and blush.

Richie watches the exchange with narrowed eyes. “Mikey, c’mon, stop trying to steal my man.” He pleads. “You know you’re stronger and better looking than me, man, thats not fair.”

Mike just laughs his genuine laugh with his crinkly eyes and perfect teeth, and Richie squints harder. “Wouldn’t do that to you, Rich.” Mike says, somewhat seriously, and Richie lets himself be placated for the time being. 

+

He doesn’t get to introduce Eddie to Beverly until a week later, at the Losers’ monthly movie night. Stan’s hosting tonight, and it’s 80′s night, so they’ve got an assortment of Brat Pack films lined up.

She takes an immediate liking to Eddie, hugging him tightly and dragging him away from Richie, probably so she can bombard him with questions that she definitely has no business asking; but that’s just Bev. She has this way about her—always has—of making people feel comfortable around her, like they can open up to her without being judged.

Of everyone Richie knows, Bev’s probably had the hardest life of them all, but despite it all, it’s only made her kind; a light that shines from the inside out.

Richie loves all of his friends more than he could ever begin to say, but there’ll always be a special place in his heart for one Beverly Marsh.

-

“You know,” Bev says, sweetly, from where she’s cuddled up next to Eddie on Stan’s couch, “Richie’s lucky he got to you first, otherwise I would’ve had to scoop you up myself.” She pinches his cheek and he grins.

“That and the fact that you’re gayer than I am, Bev. And _that’s_ saying something.” Richie calls from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, back resting against the couch. Eddie’s carding his fingers through Richie’s hair, absentmindedly.

“I’d go straight for you, Eddie.” Bev promises, and Eddie nods along with her bullshit, like the good guy he is.

“Ditto.” He whispers back, and it’s almost like they’ve been best friends for years instead of having met like, two and half movies ago.

“What is it with y'all and trying to steal my guy? Fuck off.” Richie mutters, and Bev nudges him with her foot.

“Shhh, I love this part.” She chastises, even though she’s seen _The Outsider_s so many times she probably has the movie memorized forwards, backwards, _and_ in Spanish. 

+

“What if I don’t get in?” Eddie asks, nervously. He’s literally biting his fingernails at the anticipation. They’re sitting at Richie’s kitchen table, phones in front of them as they wait for the notification.

“You will, baby, I promise. They loved you.” Richie says, making crazy eyes at his still-dark phone screen as if that’s going to make the notification appear faster, or at all.

“I can’t look.” Eddie groans. He shuts off his phone before resting his head on his folded arms on the table, and Richie rubs his back reassuringly.

“Don’t worry your little spaghetti head, Eds, I got it.” He promises.

It’s another agonizing two and a half minutes before Richie’s phone buzzes to life with a new notification, and he throws his arms in the air in triumph at what it reads, because _finally_, after everything they’ve been through, Eddie deserves this:

_**stanley the manly** added **Eddie** to the group chat_

“You’re in!” Richie says, proudly, catching Eddie easily as he flings himself into Richie’s arms. “Welcome to the loser’s club, baby!”

++++

**Epilogue - ** _three years later_

“Mom, come pick me up I’m scared.” Richie says when Stan picks up. Why did no one tell him that getting married is _terrifying_? 

“For the last time Richie, you’re thirty years old, fucking act like it. Why don’t you call your actual mother if you’re so nervous?”

“She doesn’t get me like you do, baby.” Richie coos, which is a lie. Richie Tozier is a lot of things, and one of them is his mother’s son. She gets him more than anyone, he thinks lovingly. 

Stan sighs, frustrated, but Richie’s had twenty years to get used to that. “Where are you hiding?” He asks, impatiently. “I’ll come to you.”

“Clubhouse.” Is all Richie has time to respond before Stan hangs up.

If someone had told Richie five years ago that he’d be marrying the love of his life in front of his closest friends in family, he would’ve laughed in their face. (Because Richie Tozier doesn’t get to have a happily ever after, right?) If that same person told Richie that the love of his life would a five foot six inch, slightly anxiety ridden, possible hypochondriac, and a man on top of all that, he would’ve suggested a career in stand-up comedy.

Yet here they are.

It’s Stan’s voice snaps Richie back to himself.

“You’re getting married in an hour, man, what are you doing down here?” He joins Richie where he’s seated on their old hammock. There’s a huge possibility that it might collapse under their combined weight, but neither of them mention it. (And if Stan’s bothered about being in an underground clubhouse that's covered in dust and spider webs while he’s wearing one of his nicest suits, he doesn’t let Richie know it.)

“Just scared, Stanny. I think I might have commitment issues.” Richie confesses.

“You don’t say.” Stan deadpans, eyeing Richie’s very visible, very permanent tattoos skeptically.

“That’s different and you know it.” Richie argues, rolling his eyes at his friend.

“I don’t know shit,” Stan counters, nudging Richie’s shoulder amiably, “Except that I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re with Eddie. I think you found each other at the perfect time.” Stan pauses, gathering his thoughts. “You were always the best, Richie. But Eddie...he makes you _better,_ I think_._”

“How do I know I’m making the right choice? How did you know, with Bill?” Richie pleads. 

“Rich, I’ve known since I was a teenager that Bill was the one for me. That’s different.” Stan pauses again, thinking. “Okay, I need you to do something for me, c’mon.” Stan urges.

“Yeah?”

“Close your eyes.” Stan says, and Richie does so reluctantly. “Okay, now think about Eddie. All your favorite things about him, how he makes you feel.” Richie nods, and he does. The love Richie feels in that moment hits him like a ton of bricks, makes his eyes sting behind closed lids. It’s almost enough to bring him to his knees, and thank a God he’s not even sure he believes in.

“Okay,” Stan continues, “And now picture your life without him.” Richie tries, he really does, but he has to stop himself before he lets his mind go to that dark place. His eyes snap open and he shakes his head at Stan, throat thick.

“Then you understand?” Stan asks, and Richie nods wordlessly.

“Great.” He says, standing up, and pulling Richie up with him.

“Now pull yourself together, man.” Stan says, straightening Richie’s tie, and fixing his hair. “You’ve got someone waiting for you.”

And so Richie goes, gladly. 

Best not to keep Eddie waiting too long, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I got a little carried away with this one, but I don't hate it.  
questions, comments, concerns? I live for them, and they're much appreciated! (unless ur that one anonymous who told me my writing was poor lol)  
link w/ me on:  
[it / stranger things blog](http://richienozier.tumblr.com)  
[my main blog](http://suits.tumblr.com)


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